


I Carry Your Heart

by EmmaRenfield



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community College, Ficlet, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Poetry, Shakespearian Sonnets, Tumblr Fic, ee cummings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:03:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaRenfield/pseuds/EmmaRenfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a Tumblr Prompt<br/>Derek decides that it's high time he got his life back in order and starts taking courses at Beacon Hills Community College in order to build up a transcript. Stiles finds out and, being Stiles, wants to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Carry Your Heart

            Stiles approaches his hopeless crush on Derek the way he approaches most things in his life; with a graceless lack of subtlety that astounds the majority of his friends as much as it passes straight over Derek’s oblivious head. It’s not much of a system, or a solution to the problem for that matter, but it seems to work fairly well. As long as Derek doesn’t catch on to how Stiles feels, Stiles is free to come and go from his apartment as much as he pleases, participate in some one-sided argumentative flirting, and pine as much as he wants without having to ever acknowledge his feelings or have them rejected by Derek.

            Although lately he hasn’t been so totally convinced they’d be rejected. It’s hard to tell, because he and Derek have always had _tension_ ; it’s a firmament of their entire relationship. But lately the tension’s been shifting into new, unfamiliar, vaguely sexual territory, and like, so sue Stiles for trying to take advantage of it by playing up his- admittedly very real- oral fixation or wearing his shirts a size smaller than normal. Go ahead, _sue him_. It would be worth it for the occasional probably-not-imagined heated glances and probably-mostly-accidental innuendo that has resulted, at least on Derek’s part.

            Derek, who is currently sitting at the kitchen table in his new apartment, scowling at a book with the face he usually reserves for archaic Latin. Which means something needs to be translated, which means Stiles is just in time. Derek speaks and reads Italian, Spanish, French, and, randomly enough, _Turkish_ , totally fluently; he and Lydia have multi-lingual lunches every Thursday, but he _hates_ Latin, okay, Stiles is pretty sure Derek would rather be _impaled_ than translate Latin most days.

            “Hey!” He drops his backpack on the floor and practically lunges at the table to snag the book out of Derek’s limp hands. “Want me to take over?”

            “No-Stiles, you don’t-“

            Stiles waves off the protestations, leaning over the book to start translating- except there’s nothing to translate. It’s in English, but it’s-

            There’s a long, awkward pause, before Stiles clears his throat. “Uhm, okay, so… are you reading poetry?” When he looks up, Derek’s face is twisted into an uncomfortable grimace, as though he’s expecting Stiles to jeer at him, which- no.

            He snatches the book back aggressively. “Yes, _Stiles_ , I am capable of reading, you don’t have to come in here and-“

            “Hey, no, don’t- I’m not going to make fun of you, okay, I just wasn’t-“

            “-and what are you even _doing here_ , haven’t you heard of calling ahead-“

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek, for god’s- I’m not going to make fun of you for reading poetry, _jesus.”_

He’s still glaring, but at least he’s not shouting overly-defensive nonsense and accusing Stiles of dropping by unannounced- as if he doesn’t come around whenever he wants anyways, honestly. Finally Derek slumps, shifting his eyes to the table. “I wasn’t- I was studying.”

            Stiles tilts his head, confused. “Studying? What do you—“ Realization strikes, and a warm, fuzzy, unfortunately not entirely unfamiliar sensation blooms in his chest as he shuffles his chair closer to Derek’s side, tentatively allowing their elbows and knees to brush. “Did you… did you join, like… a class?”

            It’s not as if this should be _surprising_ , really. Anyone who spends any significant amount of time with Derek notices the way he looks at college websites and sends out for brochures, hiding them furtively where he thinks no one will find them. He looks like a starving puppy whenever he visits any of them at school and gets toured around and had been furious when Scott mentioned he was thinking of skipping college and going straight to working. It’s one of those highly sensitive _we don’t talk about it_ things, though, so much as Stiles would have liked to, he’s never brought it up.

            Derek’s looking a little uncomfortable as he shifts around in his chair, and Stiles realizes it’s probably because he can hear and smell the warm-and-fuzzies influencing his bodily functions, and takes a deep breath to calm down. Derek still acts the part of the big, bad, cocky alpha a lot of the time, regardless of his technical omega status, but Stiles has learnt over the years that it’s mostly just an act to cover up what Lydia has diagnosed several times as ‘crippling shyness and an unwillingness to let go of his insecurities.’

“It’s just… at the community college. I just signed up for a few, just to get some… some credits.”

            Stiles grins. “Dude, that’s awesome! What are you taking? I mean, poetry, obviously, but what else? Other lit courses?”

            Derek rolls his eyes. “No, I’m… they’re mostly, uh, maths and business courses. I want to… I’m only taking the poetry course because my advisor said I should try and show a greater… breadth of topics.”

            Stiles nods sagely. “Yeah, looks better on transcripts, especially if you want to transfer to, like… a university.”

            Derek scoffs. “Not if I _fail_ the _course_. I don’t… I’ve never studied poetry.”

            Stiles can feel his grin shoot up to about two hundred watts, and he knows he probably looks completely deranged right now, but, like, _light bulbs_ , man! “Well I have!”

            Derek looks shiftily over at him from where he’s hunched over the poetry book. “ _Yes…_ ” The word is drawn out and chock full of wary italics, which Stiles chooses to ignore in favor of shuffling closer, completely eliminating Derek’s personal space bubble.

            “No, man, I could help you study! I’m great at poetry, it was-“

            “Your minor, I know.”

            Stiles’ mouth tilts downwards slightly, and he can feel his heart give a little anxious stutter in his chest, because maybe Derek doesn’t want his help. “Oh, true… so why didn’t you ask me for help?”

            Derek slumps even farther down in his chair. “I just… it’s just a community college course, Stiles, it isn’t important and it isn’t going to come to anything, it’s not like I could do anything with it, I just-“

            “Whoa, wait wait wait.” Stiles is intensely familiar with the sensation of feeling inadequate when compared to other people, okay, he spent his entire university career with Scott, Danny, and Jackson to compare himself to. He knows that Lydia, Danny, and himself all had their pick of the top universities in the country, and Allison got into most of her top choices and Jackson got a sports scholarship- they’re a pretty impressive bunch, okay, even Scott got into a pre-vet school program after putting a Herculean amount of effort into bringing his grades up Junior and Senior years.

            But that doesn’t mean- “Derek, I know I don’t actually need to remind you of this fact, but you suffered a _massive_ tragedy at a key point in your education, and that, not to mention the fact that you then had to spend most of your time _running for your life_ from hunters and other werewolves, meant you couldn’t go to college when you were planning.” Derek opens his mouth, about to protest, but Stiles waves him silent. “There is _nothing wrong_ with community college, and there is definitely _nothing wrong_ with getting a few credits and then applying for a university. The fact that you’re putting an effort into getting an education is awesome, and no one is going to think less of you for it.” He’s also taken some psychology courses- Stiles is now _aces_ at talking about feelings and shit.

            Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles knows that’s his go-to reaction when he’s touched, so it’s okay. It’s taken an awful lot of hard work for them to get to a point where Stiles can speak frankly about Derek’s past, and he likes to think that they’ve learnt how to read one another quite well in that time.

            “Fine, if you want to help me study that much I guess your input can’t _hurt_.”

            Stiles laughs, pointing to himself with both thumbs. “Poetry _minor_ , Derek, it won’t just not hurt.” His decision to study poetry had been pretty unexpected, especially since he’d always thought he would probably do something like anthropology or, like sociology. But, things being what they were by the time he’d graduated high school, he’d taken a more-than-passing interest in mythology and mythology, as it does, had required quite a bit of ancient poetry. It had made sense at the time. “So who are we studying?”

            Derek makes a face like he wants to die. “Post-modernists. Honestly, it was fine when we were doing Shakespeare. I remember a lot of that from high school, and I like his plays, so his sonnets were pretty easy, but we’re moving up to more… modern poets and I just. I don’t…”

            “Get it?” Stiles grimaces sympathetically. “Honestly, I’m more of an ancient poetry kind of guy, so I can totally understand not really liking the, ah, post-modernists. But, uhm… ee Cummings?” He’s a post-modernist, right? “I like him.”

            Derek shrugs. “We’re doing a whole section on him in a few weeks.”

            Grinning, Stiles grabs Derek’s notebook and pen out from underneath his resting hand, trying not to let the little thrill that runs up his arm at their moment of skin-to-skin contact show. It’s possible he fails, if Derek’s amused eyebrow-lift is anything to go by.

            He starts writing out a poem- his favorite poem, and one that always manages to remind him of Derek. He clears his throat, setting the pen down once he’s finished writing, and starts to read aloud.

           

_“_ _i like my body when it is with your_

_body. It is so quite new a thing._

_Muscles better and nerves more._

_i like your body. i like what it does,_

_i like its hows. i like to feel the spine_

_of your body and its bones, and the trembling_

_-firm-smooth ness and which i will_

_again and again and again_

_kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,_

_i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz_

_of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes_

_over parting flesh … And eyes big love-crumbs,_

_and possibly i like the thrill_

_of under me you so quite new”_ (i like my body, ee cummings)

 

            There’s a long stretch of total silence following the reading, during which Derek stares wide-eyed at Stiles, and Stiles starts to really thing about what he’s just done.

            He just read a _sex poem_ to Derek Hale.

            He might throw up.

 

            The mutual stillness ends abruptly as Derek reaches over and pulls the notebook out of Stiles’ slack hands, presumably so that he doesn’t get blood on it when he _maims and kills him, oh my god,_ because _that was a sex poem._

“That was a sex poem.” _What the fuck, Stiles_.

            Somewhere in Beacon Hills, without knowing why, Scott is doing that cringe-y face he does whenever Stiles fucks up magnificently.

            Derek is nodding. “I’m aware. As is every pretentious hipster New York City has to offer. Why are you reading me sex poems.”

            “Not everyone who reads ee cummings is a pretentious hipster.” Wow, that is so not what Stiles wanted to say just then? “I- I just. It reminds me of- you?”

            That’s not what he wanted to say just then either.

            “They spell his name in entirely lowercase letters, Stiles, trust me, it’s pretentious. Why does a sex poem remind you of me?”

            This is weird, right? So weird. Surely his voice hadn’t given _that much_ away, and if it had, Derek wouldn’t be so cruel as to taunt him about it, would he? He wouldn’t make him _say it_ just so he could reject him, right? Stiles is pretty sure that’s not like the guy he’s developed an embarrassing infatuation with.

            “Stiles.” It’s an impatient growl, one that reminds Stiles of when their friendship hadn’t been quite so solid, when he’d gotten his kicks out of being kind of an asshole, and Derek would lose his patience with him around twice a day. They’re not like that anymore, though, they’re- they’re friends, and that growly voice only ever indicates mild impatience, not the urge to maim, anymore.

            “I… I mean. Come _on,_ dude, are you really going to make me say it?”

            Something in Derek’s eyes softens, then, but his voice remains firm. “Yeah, probably. I’d like to hear it.”

            And that- that’s unexpected. “You never respond to my flirting” Stiles blurts out, and for the love of _everything holy_ it’s like he’s completely reverted to his 15 year old self and lost every filter he’s ever developed.

            Derek’s eyebrows go up. “If you’re referring to the incredibly obvious _sex puns_ that you make at everybody, then yes I do. I also respond to the never-ending stream of pens in your mouth and inappropriate, ill-fitting clothing. You’re just never paying attention.”

            “Oh. I, uh…” It’s difficult to make words, suddenly, and Stiles kind of wants to run away from this screaming, but instead he stands, awkwardly holds his hand out for Derek to take, and tries to stop himself pissing his pants.

            Derek lifts a judgmental eyebrow, this time, but takes the hand and stands nonetheless.

            So they stand there, awkwardly, while Stiles searches frantically for something intelligent to say, until Derek clears his throat.

           

_“When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,_

_I all alone beweep my outcast state_

_And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries_

_And look upon myself and curse my fate,_

_Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,_

_Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,_

_Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,_

_With what I most enjoy contented least;_

_Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,_

_Haply I think on thee, and then my state,_

_Like to the lark at break of day arising_

_From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;_

_For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings_

_That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”_ (Sonnet 29, William Shakespeare)

 

Throughout Derek’s soft recitation Stiles can feel himself growing warmer, the soft, fuzzy feeling in his chest expanding until he can hardly breathe with it, and it’s taking over his whole body but he doesn’t mind because it’s just- it’s _Derek_.

            After his recitation, Derek makes to move away, but Stiles doesn’t let him. He hauls him in by the iron-clad grip he’s got around his fingers, wraps an arm around his neck, and takes a deep breath.

            “Did you just use Shakespeare to tell me you loved me?”

            Derek cocks his head and grins. “Did you use ee cummings to tell me you wanted to bone me?”

            Stiles laughs, throwing his head back, delighted with everything the world has to offer, and leans in to kiss Derek.

            Before he lets their lips meet, however, he has one last thing to say.

           

 

_“I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it…_

_I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true).”_ (I carry your heart with me (I carry it in) ee cummings)

**Author's Note:**

> the original post (and prompt) can be found on my tumblr page: parsleytongue.tumblr.com


End file.
